


Lisa, It's Your Birthday

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Jensen, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Barista Jared, Bottom Jared, Car Accidents, Character Death, Come Marking, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Challenge, Knotting, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Male Lactation, Marking, Mpreg, Older Jared, Omega Jared, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Self-Lubrication, Slice of Life, Top Jensen Ackles, Unplanned Pregnancy, Young Jensen Ackles, Younger Jensen, art student jensen, tattooed jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Jared and Jensen can quote anything, it’s lines from The Simpsons. </p><p>Jared is thirty-three years old, a Starbucks barista, and six months pregnant. He met tattooed, pierced, art student Jensen three years ago. As an omega determined to grow up independent, Jared has fallen hard for this younger alpha who leaves laundry everywhere and hates getting his car tuned up. </p><p>Their everyday lives are filled with gossipy ladies from the first floor of Jared’s apartment building, blues records on at full blast, and getting ready for the baby.</p><p>On their way to a photography show for Jared, Jensen sings an iconic song from The Simpsons. </p><p>Their lives change forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lisa, It's Your Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> *This is death fic. Please be aware of that before you read.*

 

It was the Dick Blick Art Materials store on Michigan and Adams.

Blick’s is a dangerous place for Jared, much like book and record stores. Jared swore he needed one thing and one thing only. On the escalator to the second floor, he was a man on a mission: retrieve a piece of matte board for a commission and get the hell out.

He walked with his shoulders square, confident and unwavering in his resolution to find the correct color and size of matte board. There was to be absolutely no wayward glances at calligraphy pens or high-quality sketch paper or the bevy of other things he could not afford. Technically, he could have afforded it, but he was fighting a never ending battle many creative people face: buy supplies or eat. He had done that in college; being thirty years old, he figured he should be past that, or at least try to be past that.

But he was good. He made it to the line without picking up anything extra.

He was moments away from stepping up to the next open register and paying for the $9.99 for the matte board plus tax, and then going back to work. Lunch breaks were for that purpose—to run errands and make an efficient use of his time while also avoiding customers and getting a breather from making three hundred lattes in a row. Luckily, since it was the middle of December, Jared had on a coat, which masked the smell of coffee and his black clothes—Starbucks standard dress. The coat prevented the hipsters in line behind him from asking him to make a soy latte on the spot. Customers. Jared sighed at the thought of them.

Stepping forward, two people away from being rung up, Jared glanced over to the guy behind him who was coughing and clearing his throat.

And there he was.

Motherfucking green eyes.

God damn pouty lips.

And fucking freckles just…

To top it all off, the guy had gauges and tattoo sleeves of watercolors on both thick, muscular arms. The view of the tattoos was afforded by the guy holding a fine leather coat, canvas and brushes over it. Without a single spoken word, the guy’s eyes and mouth asked a simple, tale-as-old-as-time question: how you doin’?

Ugh.

Jared rolled his eyes and turned back towards the registers.

No thank you.

The dude was hot—gorgeous—but he was entirely aware of it. Jared wasn’t any stranger to the type. He looked selfish; like the kind of guy to take home for eye candy during a mediocre fuck, the kind of dude who would finish a little too fast, pretend like he rocked Jared’s world, and roll over, dead asleep two seconds later without even asking how it was for Jared. Nope. Nuh uh.

Besides, Jared thought to himself as he paid for his matte board, the guy looked like a puppy. Too young. _Way_ too young to even consider as anything more than a good-looking face in the check-out line. Sure, the piercings and the tattoos were alluring, but no, he had to resist.

People were not exactly fighting over each other to get into bed with Jared, and his last relationship ended so amicably, Jared didn’t even mope or listen to Coldplay. But he had standards, dammit. A little eyebrow flirting did not a relationship make. Jared was looking for something substantial that would last longer than fifteen minutes of physical exercise or nothing at all. He was fine on his own, with some AAA batteries and imagination.

Mr. Green Eyes be damned, Jared assured himself.

He thanked the cashier and headed out, without a glance back.

 

“Jen?”

Jared steps over socks, jeans, and a shirt.

A snake has been here and it has shed its items of clothing everywhere. These items are Jensen-sized and styled. One by one, Jared picks them up. The loft is too nice of a place to treat like this.

Jared is also six months pregnant, and way too hormonal to see a mess everywhere.

Once more, Jared calls out, this time irritated by finding—at the end of the trail of discarded clothes—condom wrappers on the floor. Clothes can at least be partially scooped up with his feet; condom wrappers require actual bending and there is the matter of an active baby rolling around inside him that gets in the way of his full range of motion. Stretching forward, Jared tries to reach a few of the wrappers. One is grasped while two flutter away from him. That’s it.

“Jensen, I told you to start picking up after yourself,” Jared snaps, at the bedside of a still sleeping beast. “I’m not your mom. Try to keep this place decent. Get up. You’re late for class and I’m late for work. You said you were gonna give me a ride today.”

If Jensen were properly awake, Jared knows there would be a remark made about being given a ride.

Jensen remains blissfully warm and unconscious to the real world.

Last resorts are never particularly fun, because Jensen doesn’t fully grasp how irritating it is to go through all of this to wake him up in the mornings. He didn’t listen last semester when Jared told him—three times, at least—that taking a nine a.m. class was a bad idea. And now that there’s going to be a baby in the very near future, Jensen will have to learn how to wake up on his own without a production. Jared scoops up all the scattered clothes in the master bedroom—everything from socks, to underwear, to jeans to hoodies to t-shirts to undershirts—and dumps it all onto the bed, directly over Jensen’s face.

“Get up, please,” Jared quips, swatting at Jensen’s ass. “Rise and shine, Mr. Ackles, let’s _go_.”

Hissing and cursing, the beast begins to move underneath the pile of slightly smelly, week old clothes, muttering on about what a fucking cheerful morning person Jared is.

The blinds are opened, which causes a groan from the bed. A clearer view of Jensen’s bedroom is provided, one that Jared didn’t exactly get last night when he came over for dinner, not intending to stay. Looking around, Jared becomes increasingly agitated by the sight of clutter. There are canvases and paintbrushes everywhere, plus more clothes draped over the dresser, a lampshade, and… is that underwear on the ceiling fan? Is that _his_ underwear on the ceiling fan? How the fuck did they manage _that_? He keeps one hand on the small of his back and the other on his middle. Damn this loft. Damn its fancy, high-beam ceilings. Jared takes a step towards the fan, which turns out to be a big fucking mistake.

He steps right into a used, slightly squishy, condom.

“JENSEN.”

 

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Jen.”

“Are you trying to fatten me up?”

“Yes, Jensen, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“You gonna cook me into soup?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I knew it.”

“And yet, you’re still eating.”

“Eh,” Jensen shrugs and stuffs two forkfuls of eggs into his mouth, “I’ve accepted my fate.”

“That is disgusting. What kind of parent are you gonna be?” Rising from his chair at the kitchen island, Jared hefts himself up onto his feet and grabs a napkin. He licks a corner and starts cleaning hot sauce from the scruffy corners of Jensen’s mouth. A protest is made, but it’s squashed as soon as Jared’s belly bumps up against Jensen’s arm. Jensen remains still; Jared sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of Jensen’s head. “Don’t forget about tomorrow—you promised me.”

“I won’t.” Jensen murmurs into Jared’s chest. He loops his arms around Jared and hides like a kid, then puts his ear to the growing curve of Jared’s belly. “How we doin’ today?”

“We’d be better if you cleaned up.”

“I was gonna do it, honest. But then doing you was so the better option.”

Rolling his eyes, Jared shakes his head. “Are you finished? You know how backed up State Street gets at this hour. Are you coming over to my place tonight? And don’t you dare forget about tomorrow, Jensen, please. I know I keep nagging you about it, but it’s super important and I just feel better if we’re on the same page…”

From his seat, Jensen reaches out and does the thing where he effortlessly pulls Jared in closer, like Jared isn’t six foot four, pregnant, and stubborn. This is how Jensen operates. He makes things seem as if they are possible at all times.

A tiny, sweet kiss pressed to his mouth.

Jared’s chest gives a squeeze.

Motherfucking green eyes.

Jensen smiles and he turns to the kitchen island in an attempt to grab his plate and put it in the sink. Jared made him his favorite—scrambled eggs with cheese, onions, and hot sauce, plus a side of bacon—even if he did step in a used condom and have to fish his own underwear off the dusty blade of the ceiling fan.

Before they head out into the chaos of a Monday morning commute into the heart of downtown Chicago, Jared decides that maybe they have a little time, time enough for a proper kiss.

When they press together again, Jensen laughs, clear and easy, and grabs Jared’s ass.

 

In Chicago, there are three sacred things: food, sports, and blues.

Four years of living in the Second City and Jensen has developed a love for all three of those things. Jared knows that he likes his hot dogs from the hole in the wall place on Congress and Wabash—extra mustard, easy relish, sports peppers on the side. Jensen will root for the Bears in good company, though his beloved Cowboys remain infallible no matter how the season is going. As for the blues? He blasts them on their way into the Loop.

The Loop is constant chaos. It is the land of skyscrapers and flagship stores and hundreds of thousands of people heading towards their destinations. Every L line travels through it; Jared usually takes the orange line to his studio in University Village, or the red line up to the North Side to Jensen’s loft. But today, he basks in the luxury of Jensen’s 2015 Honda CRV. He doesn’t have to walk up a flight of stairs, jam into a crowded subway car, be jolted back and forth on a thirty minute, stuffy ride, or pray to god that the delays don’t take too long. All of that sucked when Jared wasn’t pregnant; it triple sucks now that he is.

They drive out of Andersonville and neighborhoods fly past.

Traffic is clear.

Beside him is his boyfriend of three years and counting, tapping on the steering wheel at a red light to the beat of Muddy Waters playing loud and clear. Jared makes a mental note to see who’s playing at Blues Fest this year. A customer gave him VIP tickets last year at the last minute, and Jensen got to meet Eddy Clearwater.

Instead of classical music, they’ve been playing classic jazz and blues to the baby every night. Jared’s favorite is a Coltrane track—Naima. Jensen is fond of Big Mama Thornton, though he can never pick out a favorite, so the baby gets loops of her softer, slower tracks. Jared wonders if they’re raising a jazz and blues enthusiast or turning the baby off completely from either genre and towards something frightening like death metal or Taylor Swift.

April in Chicago requires a jacket, but nothing as demanding as parkas or leather in the frozen tundra that is January through March. Jensen is in a light gray jacket and faded blue jeans that hug his thighs and inspire dreams of calling off of work just to blow him all day.

In contrast, Jared is dressed in all black from head to toe—standard Starbucks attire.

Another look at Jensen, however, and Jared feels an ache in his hips and a hunger on his lips.

Damn hormones.

Unfortunately, as appetizing the idea is, Jared has rent to pay and a baby on the way.

But the view is priceless.

In an attempt to calm himself down before work, Jared turns up the next song and wiggles in his seat.

“Going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come,” he starts, free from reservations about his vocal skills and the impending eight hours of making lattes for the people of Chicago.

Right on the beat, Jensen joins in, leaning in towards Jared, a shimmy to his shoulders as he turns onto Clark Street. “They got some crazy little women, and I’m gonna get me one. I’ll be standin’ on the corner of Twelfth Street and Vine…” Jensen laughs and lets Jared take over.

“They got some Kansas City women, boy I’m gonna have me a bottle of wine…”

“I may take a train.” Jensen turns onto State.

“I may take a plane.” Jared checks for his apron, keys, and phone.

“I’m goin’ to Kansas City ‘f I got walk just the same!”

Michigan and State is the last stop for Jared. Before any of the city’s finest in blue can give Jensen a ticket for being parked in front of a no parking zone, Jared opens the door to scramble out. He’s halfway out when he ducks back in and smushes a kiss to Jensen’s cheek.

“My place tonight,” Jared says, extracting himself from the car and lingering longer than he should.

“Your place tonight,” Jensen answers back. “See you both there.”

 

The Starbucks on Michigan and State Street is in the epicenter of the Loop.

With several major attractions like the Art Institute, Grant Park, and the Congress Hotel all around—plus four major colleges and universities nearby—this Starbucks bears a generous share of moody art students, overwhelmed tourists, and over-caffeinated business suits.

That means, in the Starbucks world, that the staff has to _kick ass_.

Lines are common. The espresso machines are constantly on overdrive. There is not a fraction of a second for a mistake when the line is twenty people deep and increasing by the second.

Here, on the battlefield that is the hot bar in the middle of April, Jared commands three newbies, while their shift leader Katie oversees the register.

Katie is lean, blond, and can be generously described as “confident.” In Starbucks universe, this translates to taking absolutely no shit from customers or employees. However, as much as Katie terrifies everyone, tips are typically ten dollars higher a piece at the end of the day when she’s on schedule. This makes the threat of her bludgeoning them all with frozen pastries a little more tolerable.

Of all his coworkers, she is the scariest and the closest to Jared. They’ve worked side by side for four years against the endless onslaught of customers. Gradually, over time, drinks, and Netflix, they evolved from work friends to just friends. Last week, when Jensen was out at a show, she came over to Jared’s studio and forced him to watch six episodes of Good Eats because she has a thing for Alton Brown. Not a subtle thing, either.

Today, nearing five in the afternoon, the line has not slowed down once. The Loop is also a prime shopping center, with Macy’s, Disney, and Old Navy all sharing flagship stores within a few blocks of each other. With the weather warming up and several conventions occurring all over town, every store on Michigan Avenue is packed. Swarms of people from all walks of life cram into Starbucks, everyone made equal by their quest for something hot to take away with them on their commute home.

Hot bar is where it’s at this evening. This is how it has been all winter and into spring, though a few assholes now and then order something cold. Jared always wants to ask them—do you practice masochism or are you just deranged?

“Venti, double ice, vanilla frappuccino,” Katie calls out not two seconds later. She scribbles the order onto the clear plastic cup. “What’s the name on this?”

Corporate policy changed three weeks ago. They are required to ask for customer’s names to put on the cup and then to call it out at the hand-off plane at the end of the bar. This has had mixed reviews, but since Katie fears corporate suits dropping in and testing her, she asks every single customer in line.

“Uh,” the perpetrator of this drink says, a kid who can’t be more than eighteen, “… it’s… Shit Face.”

“Oh,” Jared winces from his station at the second espresso machine, the one closest to the register. He’s one of the two employees who stands up above the glass partition. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

The warning is too late. Katie snaps, leaning over the register, her blue eyes narrowed and her voice as hard as an accountant’s an hour before taxes are due. She threatens limbs, eyes, and hair follicles if the kid doesn’t give her his real name to write on the god forsaken cup.

Does he think this is a game?

Does he think he’s being funny?

Does he think that Katie has been standing here since the dawn of time just waiting for his wit, his curious and quick mind? Would he like to witness the line turn on him simply because he could not be a decent human being about ordering his five dollar beverage?

Because he can have all of that and more.

She will feed his balls to the End of the World guy on the corner of State Street—piece by piece.

The kid’s name is Bob.

Jared sighs and shakes his head, then passes the cup to Osric, the newbie who doesn’t seem completely overwhelmed by the cold bar. Enough has been said to Bob to do anything to his order. Sometimes, especially rude or snotty customers will find that their frappuccino is less of a handcrafted beverage and more like something thrown together in a blender with too little ice and two pumps less of sweetener. But Bob stands at the hand-off plane looking very scared and very small.

That’s good enough for Jared.

 

Working at Starbucks is nothing like working at an independent coffee shop. The work is hard, the customers rarely have time to chit-chat, and there are days when the line never ends and no one can be pleased.

Surprisingly, today wasn’t so bad.

Drinks were not flung at them from across the counter. Katie counted Jared out at the end of his shift and he brought in $35.91 extra in tips. That’s grocery money, at least. Before he left, Jared made backups of mocha, white mocha, and whipped cream. He couldn’t restock the milk since it requires too much bending, but Osric was nice enough to volunteer for the task. This makes him Jared’s favorite newbie; that, and Osric is now competent enough to work both register and bar so that Jared can sneak breaks in the backroom, sitting on a crate and rubbing his lower back or soothe the resident growing inside him.

The commute from work to his studio is not as enjoyable as this morning’s ride.

There are options, like taking Jensen’s car from the parking garage on Congress, but that would have involved preplanning. He has a vague idea of what class Jensen is in at this time, but he has no idea what building he’s in or what floor.

Jensen is majoring in Fine Arts, with a concentrating in painting. Columbia College is one of the city’s most well-known art schools, though Jensen could have also gone to the School of the Art Institute. He could have gone anywhere for anything; that’s the perk of having an unlimited trust fund. In his freshman year, Jensen did his third Grand Tour of Europe on a study abroad trip; he was able to teach his classmates more about Spain than the professor.

Jared makes his way up Michigan Avenue, towards the Clark and Lake Station so he can get onto the orange line. It’s a brisk ten minute walk, but the baby starts to wake up right near Wabash. One hand on the underside of his belly and the other gripping onto the escalator, Jared suppresses a groan.

Muscling his way through the hoards of people on the platform at rush hour, he tries to take several deep breaths, rubbing his hand in a circle.

Okay, maybe he pushed it too far today.

Focus. Focus on the smell of coffee. If it’s one thing he misses the most since being pregnant, it’s coffee. He has a few decaf blends at his place and at Jensen’s, but they can’t compare to the real deal. The sacrifice is worth it, he tells himself. Jared exhales, steadying himself against a cinderblock pole, and he works through a sharp pain in his lower back. Definitely pushed it too far today.

This baby was unexpected, but not unwelcomed.

On Jared’s thirty-third birthday, they stopped using condoms. His doctor assured him that he was way past his age to carry and that using condoms was pointless. A carrier typically reaches their ideal breeding age at around the age of twenty. The median range is twenty to twenty five. Thirty-three seemed safe. For a few months, the doctor was right. Nothing happened. Life carried on as usual.

And then something odd occurred. At the beginning of November, Jared felt a constant flush all over his body. It was like he was always warm. Then he started to get nauseous at random parts of the day, never throwing up but always feeling like he was just on the verge of it. The holiday season was starting up, so he wrote off his fatigue on that and helping Jensen set up his fall semester art show.

In December, when Jared started to rely more and more on his comfortable pants for work, he blamed that on his own photography show—a small but stressful event one of his clients, Lupe, secured for him at an art gallery in Rogers Park. Between shuttling there, over to Jensen’s, to work, and to his own place, Jared was eating junk food like he’d never had it before. There was something about a Big Mac that was almost sensual in those days. If a McDonald’s was on his way to wherever he was going, he stopped, ate two Big Macs, and tried his best not to feel guilty.

Of course, in January, when the weight started packing on and he could no longer ignore the nausea, he went back to the doctor.

That night, he broke the news to Jensen.

Jensen sat in silence for a minute.

And then he started asking questions—was Jared okay? Did he need anything? When was the next check-up? Could he go? Could he get a copy of the ultrasound picture? Could he frame it? Did Jared have prenatal vitamins? And then—holy shit, Jared! We’re gonna be… you’re gonna…!

Neither of them has panicked so far, even as the due date hovers closer and closer. There have, however, been a few arguments, mostly centered on Jared moving in with Jensen. Jared can’t afford to pay even half of what Jensen’s rent costs; Jensen doesn’t want to leave his place, so his answer is to pay for everything, which is not a solution in Jared’s perspective.

A compromise will have to be made soon. Adult responsibilities and decisions are on a timeline with the tiny human rolling around inside him.

Jared braces himself as the train pulls up to the platform. People are inconsiderate with where they jab their elbows. With his arms huddled over his belly, he manages to use his height and shoulder to his advantage, and he scores a seat, wedged against a filmy window.

At least his bladder is under control. He hasn’t been running to the bathroom like most carriers have told him stories about. Settled on the train and relaxed for the next thirty minutes, the pain eases up.

Putting his age into consideration, Jared is old to be carrying. He fired the first doctor who assured him they wouldn’t need condoms, and hired another closer to Jensen’s loft. This is a high-risk pregnancy considering his age and the fact that this is his first child. Jared wonders now, watching the Loop swish by, if this is his last. Does Jensen want more kids? Where would they live? There are three rooms in the loft, but one is a guest bedroom and the other is a studio space. There’s also no backyard. Jared wants a yard and maybe a little swing set.

The orange line churns away. More people squeeze into the car at every stop, using every available inch of space, pressing in closer. Jared closes his eyes.

He always thought that being thirty-three years old would guarantee him more security and stability.

So far, he’s done all right for himself. He can pay his rent, buy food, and have some fun here and there. He has health insurance through Starbucks, a small 401k, and a college degree in Communications he hasn’t utilized in years. Starbucks pays more than the jobs he’s qualified to do in Communications and now, with the baby, he can’t afford to lose his benefits or a cut in pay to switch jobs.

Whenever these topics come up, Jensen tells him not to worry. He says he’s got them covered—all three of them.

And all Jared has to do is stay healthy, happy, and his. Even though Jared is a realist, he allows himself the comfort of his boyfriend’s words. They’ll figure things out, one way or another.

The walk home from the orange line is decidedly much calmer.

 

People like to talk.

Jared works at Starbucks. He’s been privy to a million personal phone calls by customers who can never bother to get off their phones to order. So he knows—gossip is interesting.

The ladies on the second floor of his building consider themselves the most informed people within a three miles radius. Retired and bored of their husbands, these ladies linger around the bank of mailboxes on the first floor, a prime location to see everyone and everything.

When Jensen first started swinging by, the ladies were intrigued.

A younger alpha with an older omega?

And it wasn’t just a few years’ difference—Jared was thirty when they started dating and Jensen had just turned twenty, a sophomore in college. The ladies had a field day whenever Jensen would arrive in the evening and leave the next day. Whenever Jared would bring groceries home, they would ask their little questions: what kind of food do strapping, young alphas eat these days? Could Jared make his favorite meals? Did he eat through a week’s worth of groceries in a few sittings?

Underneath their questions, Jared knew what they were really asking: how could an alpha almost ten years his junior be interested in him?

It was a scandal when Jared and Jensen celebrated three years together. It was a practical meltdown when Jared started showing in February. They are unmarried, haven’t moved in together, Jensen hasn’t graduated yet, and Jared doesn’t have a proper career.

“How are you today, Jared?” The red haired one asks as Jared retrieves his mail. “How’s the baby?”

“You’re coming along nicely!” The blond one inquires without missing a beat. “Good to see you with some meat to those bones!” In the five years Jared has lived here, he hasn’t bothered learning their names. They are simply “the ladies.” And after being tossed around on the L like a pebble in a shoe, Jared does not feel up to talking.

“We’re good,” Jared murmurs, taking on the tone he uses for the latte customers who demand absolutely no foam. “I just have to pee like a mother right now. Excuse me.”

Once he’s inside his studio, with the door shut behind him, he sends Jensen a text.

“Ladies got me. You’re up next.”

 

The record player in Jared’s studio is a thrift store find. He hauled it out from underneath a rack of irregular sweaters. It cost five dollars, but Jared worked the lady at the counter down to three since it didn’t come with a top. At first, all he played on it was classical music. But then Jensen started spending more time in the studio than at his loft. With him, he brought over records purchased just to play on Jared’s turntable. Next to Mozart and Chopin and the occasional Waylon Jennings album, Jensen’s Muddy Waters, Albert King, Elmore James, T-Bone Walker, and John Lee Hooker albums nestled in close.

Jensen had the means to go out and buy a high-quality, brand new turntable at any moment.

For three years, he chose to play his records on Jared’s.

He steps into his studio and pops on a T-Bone Walker album.

Jared wouldn’t consider himself a homebody by any means, but being pregnant has side effects that extend beyond sobbing during Netflix marathons of Parks and Rec or downloaded episodes of early Simpsons seasons.

He keeps Jensen’s loft picked up and clean because he is an overall neat person. At the moment, his studio is unusually messy, but that can be blamed on his show tomorrow. Kim is Jensen’s connection and dearest friend; she was looking for a photographer to do a small series on black history in the Loop and went to Columbia in search of one. She moved from Dallas to Chicago a year after Jensen, working for a small nonprofit on the South Side, near 95th. Jensen has known her since middle school. She likes to lord it over him that she’s the only person in Chicago who was privy to Jensen’s pizza face in the sixth _and_ seventh grades.

Over Jensen and Kim’s weekly Thai food, Texas gossip, and Long Island iced teas—with an extra dash of Southern charm and enthusiasm—Jensen got Jared the job.

Kim liked what Jared shot so much she decided to do a private show. With luck and Jensen’s people skills, Jared might be able to get a few more commissions for series. Jared never went to art school—he went to a small private university across from Columbia—but he’s been shooting since he was a teenager.

Matte boards and frames are propped up against every available wall in Jared’s studio.

As the casserole in the oven cooks, Jared goes around to each print and fusses. While he’s deciding whether or not to reframe one of the church pictures, he catches a glimpse of something curious. He looks down at his black polo. There are the usual stains of mocha, whipped cream, and frappuccino, but there’s something else, something strange. Setting down the photo, he walks over to the tiny bathroom and turns sideways to get a better look.

Oh shit.

He stretches the polo over his chest and yep, there they are—breasts.

This shouldn’t be a surprise—how was he planning on feeding this baby?—but it’s just one more transformation his body is going through that he had never planned for or imagined. Plenty of his omega classmates had daydreams and fantasies about growing up and carrying children for their alphas. In fact, as Jared lifts up his shirt in a moment of boldness, he remembers one assignment in middle school that he particularly loathed: what kind of alpha I want to marry.

He wrote “none” on that assignment and received his first F.

“Oh my god,” Jared breathes out, staring at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t remember going to work with _these_ this morning. Why didn’t Jensen tell him? The apron probably covered them up while he was on bar, but holy shit. He cups the right one and finds that it’s a handful already. Should he buy a bra? A tank top? My god, are those _more_ stretch marks?

The timer on the ancient microwave pings, disrupting his crisis.

As soon as the casserole is on the stovetop to cool, Jared hears keys in the front door.

“No, yeah, I know,” Jensen grumbles into his iPhone, balanced on his shoulder, carrying grocery bags in both hands. Jared shoves his shirt down, rushes out of the bathroom, and steps forward, taking each bag from Jensen. He is surprised by the kiss he receives in the process. Jensen smiles for a split second, then rolls his eyes. “No, dad, I do not need a chartered plane. Look, I just can’t get away right now. Jay and I…” A conspiring look is given. “…we’re taking a class together and it starts next week.”

That class, of course, is LaMaze at the Y near Jensen’s loft.

A freckled nose scrunches. Mr. Ackles must be in rare form today. For the next two minutes, as Jensen tosses his set of keys onto the kitchen counter, toes off his shoes, and hangs up his coat, he’s all “okay, dad” and “thanks, dad” and the ever cheerful, “sure, dad, yeah.” Meanwhile, Jared texts Katie, reminding her that their Netflix night will be Saturday night this week instead of Friday. She can bring over wine only if she brings over apple juice for Jared.

The Ackles have a very different family dynamic than Jared is used to. Jensen’s mother lives somewhere in Maine. After her divorce from Mr. Ackles ten years ago, she moved out there to discover herself. From the rare visits Jensen has had with her since the divorce, apparently all she’s found are antiques and the bottoms of wine bottles. But she means well. Every Christmas she sends Jensen a check, a package of socks, and a handwritten note.

Mr. Ackles on the other hand, expects Jensen to send him something, his reasoning being that Jensen’s trust fund is his Christmas present. And every year, two months before Christmas, Jensen panics about what to get his father. Two years and counting, Jared has selected the gifts; both have merited compliments, though Mr. Ackles doesn’t necessarily know they were Jared’s ideas. But that’s all right. Jared doesn’t want the credit. He just wants Jensen to be happy.

A conservative, Republican oil executive, Mr. Ackles does not approve of Jensen’s lifestyle, tattoos, piercings, or any of his life choices. What he does approve of, surprisingly, is that Jensen has talent for art. That is as good as can be expected from Mr. Ackles. Jensen visits Texas twice a year. This phone call must be the annual reminder.

“Oh, dad, I’m actually just getting onto the L,” Jensen says, pulling out receipts from his pockets. He holds them up to the speaker and starts crinkling. “Sorry, reception sucks here… yeah… you know, I’ll just call you later. Later. I said, I’ll call you…”

Jensen flinches and stares at his phone.

“What?” Jared asks, taking out a pitcher of water from the fridge. “What happened?”

“ _He_ hung up on me.”

“That man, I swear…”

“Whatever, he’s just in one of his moods. You know whose I _do_ like?”

“Charlie does not control your trust fund, Jen.”

“But he makes the best burgers.”

“True.”

“And you,” Jensen adds, spotting the casserole on the stove, “make the best cheesy potatoes ever. Does it have…”

“Bacon _and_ ham.”

“You love me.” Jensen happily sighs, arms wrapped around Jared’s waist. “You really, really love me.”

On the flip side of the Ackles, Jared grew up in a single-parent household, his mother having passed away when he was one. Charlie Padalecki is a six foot five teddy bear and overgrown child. He will defend the Bears and deep dish pizza until the day he is buried in the cold, hard ground. After the death of his first wife and omega, he never remarried, though he has seen a few omegas around his age, the most recent one a very nice librarian by the name of Sheila. When June passed away, Charlie made a promise to himself and Jared—it was his boy first, no one else. Jared grew up in a very loving, affectionate home, even if it was small and dinner most nights was a can of Spaghetti-Os. The last Jared heard from Charlie, he’s somewhere off in New Zealand, because that’s what biologists do. Any time Charlie is in town, Jensen is the first in line to visit him.

Charlie knows about the baby. Neither one of Jensen’s parents does—it’s not their business to know.

There will be time to break the news to them later. For now, Jared kisses away his boyfriend’s stress.

Jensen smells like peppermint, India ink, and coffee. His lips against Jared’s are plush, pliant, and perfect. The mouth on this man. Jared pushes him against the kitchen counter, maintaining a firm grip on the firm, pert curve of Jensen’s ass. Jensen jogs on an indoor track at Columbia’s student center three times a week, and lifts right after. Some of the benefits to that regime are shown in the strong arms wrapped around Jared, gentle hands carding through his hair.

“Casserole,” Jared mumbles, gasping right after as Jensen’s mouth moves to the slope of his neck. “Jen… it’s gonna get cold.”

Warm and round, Jared’s belly is pressed between them, safe, snug. Jensen brings his hands down to the tender sides of it, cupping Jared, biting down on his neck, effectively making Jared forget all about the casserole.

It isn’t too much longer until Jensen’s hands move north and discover two new developments. His eyes go wide and his mouth forms a surprised O. Blushing, Jared starts to pull away. Maybe this isn’t Jensen’s thing. Maybe he’s turned off by a pair of breasts on a male omega. Maybe this will be the one change to his body that will cross a line.

“Jay,” Jensen exhales, pulling Jared back in, their mouths only an inch away. “You can reheat that, right?”

 

 _Sunday I go to church, then I kneel down and pray_.

Jensen kneels in between the vee of Jared’s legs. He closes his eyes, holds Jared open, and repeats the prayer they do together. Please, please, please.

The drag of Jensen’s tongue over the rim of him causes Jared to groan. Legs hitched over broad shoulders, Jared opens up with every lick, gasps with every press of Jensen’s tongue, until Jensen is slipping into him. Warm, wet, slick wells up, until it pushes out, spilling over the sensuous stab of Jensen’s tongue.

 _They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday’s just as bad_.

Soft pops from the record player on the dresser mingle with a lusty, languid tenor sax.

Jensen laps at satiny walls, his tongue surrounded by heat and dampness. A piano tickles the bass line.

_Wednesday’s worse, and Thursday’s also sad. As the eagle flies on Friday, and Saturday I go out to play._

There is an intimate tilt, twist, and curl inside him, pushing up against a bundle of nerves as potent, languorous, electric guitar riffs are stroked. Slick makes everything smooth and shiny. Jensen’s lips glisten the second he pulls away, withdrawing his tongue, holding Jared open with his fingers. This is the view of the world as Jared lies on his back, Jensen in between his legs, his eyes dark and his mouth soaked.

Movement occurs in time to a fluid, mellow melody.

Arms under Jared’s knees, Jensen pulls him to the edge of the mattress.

The world moves with Jared’s hips and the downward slope of the ninth chord two frets above.

 _Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy, my heart’s in misery_.

Heavy, hard, and thick, Jensen thrusts inside Jared, his cock twitching, a groan playing with the back-up band. He drives into the squelch of Jared, bare and aching, a knot already formed. The horn accompanies the tenor sax, the piano, and the thrill of a cry—

_Lord! Have mercy!_

Bearing down on an angle so fine, so deep and stirring there are stars, Jensen begins to thrust. The springs underneath them rattle. Jared’s legs wrap around Jensen’s waist. Heat and sweat builds between them, collecting with the squelch of slick dripping out in thick, sticky coats. Firm hands grope and squeeze Jared’s chest, kneading and holding each tender breast until they are as pink and red as the gaping hole Jensen withdraws from for a cruel few seconds.

Jared moans at the singular plunge of Jensen’s cock and the push of his knot. Slick eases the way. Fused, the knot swells in size, working Jared open, sealing them together.

Move.

Stretched out, his belly heaving with the upwards arch of his hips, Jared punches out a ragged breath.

 _Lord, have mercy on me_.

With every rough, luscious snap of Jensen’s hips, the rounded mound of Jared’s belly bounces. Hands move from his chest to splay over the wide, generous curve, tracing and pressing over stretch marks. Fingertips made rough by canvas and ink press crescents into Jared, dotting him all over, creating constellations of lunar worship.

Nerves are heaved and rammed against. Jared’s thighs tremble.

Each ragged breath is tied to the long, lean form of the alpha above and around him.

The springs in the mattress follow the thrill of the guitar, the attitude behind the soulful tune.

Jared pulls Jensen in, clenching every muscle in his hips, rolling his belly forward, clamping down all around the dense, solid cock and knot stuffed inside him, filling him up to the brim.

Jared presses his hands against the wall behind him for leverage.

The wall is cool.

Jensen’s hips are searing. The press of skin to skin, the slap and gush of them winds Jensen up tighter than the notes played in mere seconds.

Gasping, Jared comes.

His cock responds, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying as the gush from inside him, the push of slick all over Jensen’s cock and knot. He spasms and quivers and trembles to the arrangement of desperate, longing notes. He floods the edge of the bed with come—once, twice, and three times, all from erratic, frenzied compression.

A slower progression of notes breaks through. Jensen comes. Hard. Pulsing. Pumping.

Green eyes lock onto Jared’s the second his knot deflates a fraction. It is just enough—just enough to pull out in the middle of his crest with a squelch and a pop, leaving Jared saturated and leaking. Jensen grips the base of himself and strokes, milking out every last drop of come onto the healthy proof of Jared’s fertility. He grinds over the swell of Jared’s belly, marking it, marking them, taking and giving everything all at once.

_Lord, have mercy on me._

Jensen settles against Jared’s chest, trembling all over, clinging to him, fingers curled tight over Jared’s arms. Steady. Breathe. Steady. Breathe.

_Crazy ‘bout my baby, yeah, send her back to me._

 

The next morning, an hour before the alarm is set to go off, Jensen fucks into Jared slow and warm.

From his side, Jensen turns Jared over, onto his knees, and mounts him from behind. In ten thrusts, with one hand tangled in Jared’s hair and the other cupping the underside of Jared’s belly, Jensen works his knot past the flutter of muscle and into sopping, shuddering heat.

Jared moans into his pillow, working his hips back to meet the snap and slap of Jensen’s. He spreads his legs and basks in each demanding, possessive thrust.

He lets go of himself.

Turns himself over.

Allows himself to be played into a song—a heavy hymn.

Jensen gropes Jared’s ass, rolling their hips forward, commanding and confident with every stroke.

The mattress squeaks—thump, thump, thump.

Jared’s heart matches it—badum, badum, badum.

In the early, pink-tinted view of a Chicago morning, Jared is steam.

Hips up. Head down. He rocks into the mattress, exhaling breathy moans, basking in the simplicity of the muscles in Jensen’s thighs working, and the dip and delve of the cock and knot buried to the hilt. Jensen leans down, pressing them chest to back. A pillow is slipped underneath Jared’s belly.

The first orgasm is rough, wrung from Jared with pressure and force and possession. Jared closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and goes boneless; his hips slack as slick pushes over the twitching cock and swollen knot still moving inside him. The second orgasm is moments later, following a switch in tempo. Watercolors surround Jared as Jensen supports himself on his hands, keeping them near Jared’s shoulders, allowing his hips to undulate and grind against Jared’s without a hold.

Come again.

This is the demand. Jared replies with a shout and a groan and a curl of his toes. Jensen pounds into him, pulling back so that his knot pushes against the rim of Jared, grazing the sensitive nerves there. He rolls his hips forward right after, fucking into Jared at this angle that gets them the closest.

Jared has never once hesitated to have his back to Jensen like this.

It might be rough and heated and desperate.

But it’s them.

Again. Jared comes a second time, chased by a quick third the moment he feels Jensen’s knot swell. If they have sex again today, they’ll have to use condoms. Twice a day bare is good for the baby. Any more than that and come could soften something fragile inside Jared. For now, he tilts his hips a fraction, opening himself, spreading his legs a little more, offering himself fully to a thick, lush load of come.

Sweaty and hot, Jensen moves to lie down. Jared moves with him.

Jensen is panting, wheezing slightly, trembling as his knot pulses and a large load releases. He noses the back of Jared’s neck and places his left hand over Jared’s belly. Jared reaches back.

This is the best way to wake up.

He cards through Jensen’s short, tawny hair, and hums to settle their breathing.

 

Jensen has class at noon.

It’s ten.

Jared is working a four hour shift from noon to four so he can leave for his show right after, which starts at seven sharp. He should be at the gallery by five to set up and do a preliminary run through. Kim is handling everything else, which he is eternally grateful for. There’ll be a cash bar, a DJ to play calming, atmospheric music, and light appetizers. Of course, there will also be plenty of mingling and networking, which is the only thing about tonight that makes Jared’s stomach flip. Well, that and the baby wiggling over his organs.

On clean, fresh sheets that Jensen changed while Jared showered, they spend the rest of the hour with the baby, who is clearly awake and restless. Jensen presses his hands over Jared’s belly with a sense of awe that hasn’t diminished since Jared first started to show. It’s adorable. Jared can feel his heart melt and he might just start crying.

Damn hormones. Jared sniffs and hides his face when Jensen asks what’s wrong.

“Can I make you cry some more?” Jensen murmurs, kissing the curve of Jared’s belly and giving it a gentle, affectionate tap with his fingers. He scoots down onto the floor and turns on the tiny portable television screen Jared has just for him. Soon enough, Mario Party is up and running.

“You jerk, why would you wanna do that?”

“You just said it—I’m a jerk. It’s what I do.”

“True. Are you gonna tell me you’ll keep your place clean and neat from now on?”

Jensen sighs and frowns. “C’mon, JP, it’s not that messy.”

“Jen, when I met you, you didn’t know what a Swiffer was.”

“So? I learned, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Jared breathes out, flicking Jensen’s nose. “I’m an excellent teacher.”

“Hey, you still don’t know how to do an oil change.”

“Jen, I’ve never had to own a car, why would I?”

“It’s useful.”

“For people who own cars.”

“You drive my car.”

“I do, and that’s very nice of you to let me, but I don’t own it. Therefore, oil changes are your responsibility, not mine.” A craving for hot dogs and cheese fries begins to set in. They ate a few forkfuls of cold, leftover casserole straight from the dish earlier. As Jensen sits up and grabs the bottle of lotion from the nightstand, Jared dreams about a jumbo hot dog with extra pickles.

“I hate going to the mechanic,” Jensen rumbles, kneeling beside Jared on the bed, pouting as he snaps open the cap.

“You were gonna try to make me cry with an announcement about your car? Jen, this is why you’re a jerk.” That last part is said softer than Jared intends. He watches Jensen pour out a dollop of lotion into his hands, warming it before he spreads it over Jared’s belly.

It’s these little things.

“Jen?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you really okay being with me?”

“Well,” Jensen snorts into Jared’s cheek, pressing a kiss there, “you think I’m a jerk. And you hog the blankets.”

“I get cold.”

“It’s more than that, JP. I’ve seen you. You take the blankets and you ball them up between your legs. You don’t even use them to cover you.” A smile blooms despite Jensen’s complaints. “Let’s see, what else? Your hair clogs up my shower drain.”

Freckled, thick fingers work smooth and light circles over the round, warm mound. The movement there has stilled, a break given to Jared’s ribs. Outside, the city operates and carries on as usual before lunchtime. Garbage trucks barrel down the street, followed by honks that must be from cabbies fearing for their lives.

“I can make your latte exactly the way you like it,” Jared grumbles, lifting his shirt up over his chest.

Another dollop of lotion is squeezed out, and Jensen takes a deep breath. He cups Jared’s breasts and lets out that breath, a blush spreading over the bridge of his nose.

“I really like these.” Jensen admits this with a rough grope. “Like… a lot, a lot.”

“You changed the subject.”

“Huh?”

“…humor me and my insecurities.”

“JP, you’re crazy.”

“Yeah? And you’re never getting any blankets ever again.”

Jensen works his hands expertly, pinching Jared’s nipples between his fingers and rolling back and forth gently, while applying pressure with his palms. Jared’s breathing picks up and the warmth from his belly buds into his hips. Two more gropes are given before Jensen moves his hands down again. Watercolors and delicate, flowery letters of quotes and dates special to Jensen contrast with the pale, round surface of Jared’s middle, striped by stretch marks. There are three months left.

In low, hushed tones, Jensen speaks without sarcasm. His accent is unfiltered, allowed to slip out in the privacy of this space, in the moment between them.

“Sometimes I think I’m too young for you, JP. Maybe I’m holdin’ you back from finding someone who’s right for you that isn’t all over the fucking place. You had to explain my own trust fund to me last month. And okay, yes, I kinda do want you to take my car in because the mechanics are scary but I’d buy you dinner after, I promise. So… you see… I gotta do this thing sometimes.”

Jared places his hands over Jensen’s. “Do what?”

A mischievous smile peeks out.

“I remind myself that I am right for you. That’s all.”

Reaching up, Jared pulls Jensen down for a kiss. Leave it to Mr. Art School to be touching and sweet at just the right moment, saying exactly what Jared needs to hear.

“Jen,” Jared murmurs, nosing Jensen’s hair, “I wanna move in with you.”

They are all smiles the rest of the morning.

 

“Turn that game off, Jen, you’re going to be late for class and I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Just a sec…”

“You said that ten minutes ago. Look at you, you’re latched onto that screen.”

“I’m the XBOX generation, JP. My motor skills are awesome. My reflexes? Like a cat.”

“Whatever, Jen, I think you should go get some fresh air before class.”

“Hey, playing Destiny for eight hours in a row might save someone’s life one day.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“You don’t even play video games, what would you know?”

“Nope, I don’t. Never did. I did a little thing called reading.”

“And you call me a snob.”

“That’s because you _are_ a snob, Jensen.”

“The sandwich said it was supposed to have aoli, I just wanted my aoli.”

“Snob and a half.”

“Don’t quote _Clueless_ to me, JP.”

“Then stop playing and get over here. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Just ten more minutes. I promise.”

“Jensen!”

“Okay! Okay! But you’re gonna be sorry the day I save someone’s life because _I_ knew to press X at the right moment.”

“When that happens, Jensen, I’ll throw confetti.”

 

At Starbucks, Jared has mastered every drink available on the menu.

He has memorized the number of pumps of syrup and base to every possible combination. And he knows that hazelnut strawberry frappuccinos sound disgusting, but it’s the most delicious concoction gifted to human tongues from the hands of baristas brave enough to experiment when the store is slow. Of course, he also knows that raspberry syrup in anything—even in hot chocolate—turns a perfectly good drink into sludge.

Creating drinks is what he knows. And he’s one of the few baristas at his store who can carry on three conversations while making a line of drinks without skipping a reference or a beat. There is comfort in coming to work, rolling up his sleeves, and knowing that whatever the day brings, he’ll make it through. He is a barista hardened by countless lines of pushy, under-caffeinated customers. If his whipped cream canister runs out in the middle of a drink, does he panic? No. He grabs a new one. And if they’ve run out of canisters, does he panic then? No. He makes a new one in sixty seconds flat and keeps the line moving because god dammit, people need their coffee so they can get out of his face.

Today is busy.

Three people have called off, one went home early, and it’s just Jared and Osric at the hot bar while Yuda—a coworker Jared has never been particularly close to, a part-time substitute teacher a few years older than Jared—fields the cold bar. Katie is on the register, also working the pastry case and drip coffee in between orders. Typically, to run well, the store staffs anywhere between eight and twelve people throughout the day. Twelve means shit gets done without anyone burning themselves. Eight means potential burnouts.

Four people on the floor at two in the afternoon is just asking for trouble.

Osric is great the bar, but he isn’t used to the pressure yet. He can’t keep all of his pitchers straight or his hands from shaking, so his station is a mess. Three of his drinks get sent back and Jared remakes them on top of what he’s working on. Yuda curses in the background. One of the blenders is out of commission, leaving them with one against the line that’s thirty people deep. The lady at the register can’t decide on what to order and she’s holding up the rest of the line despite Katie’s many, increasingly impatient suggestions. Osric burns himself on the steam wand. To his credit, he covers it with a damp rag and keeps working. The dishes are piling up. They are on their last backups of mocha and coffee base.

Jared holds out until he has to make three canisters of whipped cream.

In the middle of making a latte with one hand and shaking a canister in the other, a sharp pain starts at his lower back and winds around him to the underside of his belly. He doubles over, winded, and slams the canister down onto the counter to avoid crying out.

“Jared!” Osric gasps and drops everything. “Hey man, c’mon, let’s go to back.”

The pain ripples all over him, but remains centered in his belly. Osric places a hand on his back and guides him towards the back room. Yuda pushes the back room door open for them.

Almost in the clear, a voice booms out from behind them.

“Oh that’s just fucking great!” A man in line is screaming. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes and now this happens! Hey blondie, I better get a free drink out of this, this is the _worst_ Starbucks I’ve ever been to!”

Jared moves against Osric trying to walk him into the back room.

He’s not going to let this asshole…

“GET OUT,” Katie shouts. “GET OUT OF MY STORE.” Although he has six inches and countless pounds over her, she doesn’t hesitate to lean over the counter to close the space between her and him.

He doesn’t move.

She does.

She gets right in his face.

“EXCUSE ME, SIR,” she screams back, making him visibly cringe. “EXCUSE ME. DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? LET ME REPEAT MYSELF: GET OUT.”

Katie did not become shift supervisor for no reason.

There’s something crazy in her eyes that says she will snap at any moment—truly snap and lose it completely—if the man does not get the fuck out.

For ten seconds, the only noise in the store comes from the whir of espresso machines.

And then the tides turn. A group of customers behind the asshole begin to clap their hands while others start to boo, yelling at the guy to get out of line and go home. Katie doesn’t give up an inch of her space. She stands her ground, raising her arm and pointing to the bank of doors twenty feet away.

The asshole leaves with his head down, disappearing into the crowds of Michigan Avenue.

Katie’s attention turns to Jared. She snaps at him—“Call Jensen and go home.”

“But…”

“Everyone who saw that gets an upgrade,” Katie calls out to the line, finished with Jared. “Now, if the rest of you can be patient with us because we’re trying our best, we’ll get you all your drinks without any more problems.”

Osric hands Jared his coat.

Ten minutes later, seeing red, Jensen arrives.

 

This is the total opposite of their morning.

An hour later, in Jared’s studio, Jensen replaces the hot water bottle under the small of Jared’s back. He adds another pillow underneath Jared’s legs, trying to follow the doctor’s instructions to keep Jared’s legs elevated.

The pain was a contraction caused by stress. Jared’s appointment gets moved up to tomorrow. He is gently reminded that being older means taking it a little easier with the little one he’s carrying. After the doctor, Jared calls Katie and leaves a message on her voicemail. He’s fine. The baby is fine. Everyone except Jensen is relaxed.

Jensen hovers close by at all times, even when Jared insists that he can go back to class.

“You can cancel tonight,” Jensen says for the third time since Jared lay down in bed. “Kim can move the show, you know that.”

“Jensen, I’m fine. I just… pushed it a little too much at work.”

“Right, so you shouldn’t aggravate yourself more tonight.”

“It’s taken months to put this together, Jen. This is my last show before the baby.”

“You can do shows after the baby’s born.”

“No, I can’t,” Jared grouses out. “I’ll be _home_ with the baby.” He sits up and adjusts the water bottle against his back. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Jensen goes quiet. Jared apologizes for snapping and takes a sip of lukewarm tea that Jensen made him as soon as they arrived.

Looking at his hands, Jensen mumbles. “I… I kinda also wanted to stay home with the baby, JP.”

Breathing out, Jared sighs, still uncomfortable but no longer in pain. “I’d love that, Jen. But can we afford it? That’s another thing—I have to sell as much as I can tonight so I can be on maternity leave at eight months instead of nine. I just… y’know, have to learn how to calm down a little more at work.”

With a snort, Jensen nods. His shoulders are bunched up and tense. But still, as agitated and concerned as Jensen is, he still looks so good. Jared starts to breathe a little slower as his eyes flit over the long, lean, familiar figure of his boyfriend. The outfit Jensen is in is simple—dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt—but all it does is accentuate muscles and form.

Jared nudges Jensen’s back with his knee.

“Take a nap with me, Jen.”

They’ll talk about the logistics of maternity leave and finances tomorrow. Jared has the paperwork for his leave, plus the insurance information on what’s covered and what they can expect to pay after the baby’s birth. And they should take a trek out to the suburbs to IKEA to buy furniture for Jensen’s guest room, which will now be the baby’s.

Green eyes look over at Jared.

“Do you trust me to take care of you—both of you?”

Jared doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. We do.”

Jensen nods.

He lies down and wraps his arms around Jared, hugging them tight.

 

Jensen’s tattoos started his freshman year of college, just about six months before he met Jared.

Both arms have a base layer of rainbows in gradients, tattooed on to be like watercolors. Jensen’s best medium is watercolors; he’s done everything from children’s books to painting walls to comic panels. He likes the unpredictability of watercolors, the effort to make pieces come alive through lack of control. It is, according to Jensen, by far the most expressive way to paint. He designed his sleeves and sat in the chair for three, four hour sessions.

Every year, on Jensen’s birthday, Jared pays to have the tattoos touched up.

On Jensen’s right forearm are characters from his most beloved video game: Mario Party. His and Jared’s favorite characters to play are front and center: Princess Peach and Yoshi. Further up, near his bicep, are three 8-bit hearts. Next to the hearts is a tiny watercolor replica of John Singer Sargent’s painting of a Venetian church, which Jensen always visits whenever he’s in Europe. And finally, wrapped around his right wrist, is his favorite Bob Ross quote: In painting, you have unlimited power.

The tattoos started after Jensen’s first long-term relationship ended.

On Jensen’s left forearm is the sound wave of the baby’s first ultrasound. Underneath it is his initials and Jared’s, with space for a third. A few smaller designs are patterned throughout his left arm, with a snippet of a William Carlos Williams poem on his bicep.

Jared runs his hands up and down Jensen’s arms, kissing him as they step out of the shower in Jared’s studio. There isn’t time for anything extra, but there’s a promise of it later, if Jared isn’t too tired. He figures there’s a good chance he won’t be.

This has been a much better outcome, even though they all had a scare. Instead of heading over to the gallery by himself, Jensen is now with him, insisting that Jared not lift a finger. All of his photos, boarded and framed, are hauled into the CRV’s trunk and backseat. Miraculously, everything is packed up and ready by ten to five. They spend those extra ten minutes exchanging kisses and gropes in the kitchen.

In the car, Jensen switches on Naima. It’s a fifteen minute drive north, and with Jensen’s help, it won’t take as long to set up. The larger photographs are already there, having been moved two weeks ago and kept in storage. This series is mix of traditional black and white photography and digital. Jared has two professional digital cameras and one old school point and shoot, which he develops the film for himself. Once a month, one of Jensen’s professors lets Jared use the dark room at Columbia.

“You’re going to be freakin’ awesome,” Jensen states, tapping the wheel at a red light. “Are you adequately prepared to rock tonight? You got your camera too, just in case?”

A change of clothes for both of them hangs from the hook on Jared’s side. He fiddles with his seatbelt, nervously needing something to do with his hands. The Simpsons quote makes him smile. “Yeah, got it. I hope I’m as big of a hit as football in the groin,” he replies, pleased by the laugh in return.

“Aw jeez, JP, nothing beats football in the groin.”

“Well, I sleep in a racing car, do you?”

“Uhh…” Jensen turns onto Halsted, heading towards Clybourn to take Ashland. “I sleep in a big bed with my wife.” He changes lanes after a taxi stalls in the middle for seemingly no reason. “Hey, Jay, it’s eleven o’clock, do you know where your children are?”

Jared laughs. “I told you last night, no!”

Tomorrow, Jared has given up his shift and Jensen swears he’ll be fine skipping his art theory class. The baby’s check up is in the morning, and then Jared hopes to have lunch at the Cuban place near Doctor Morgan’s office. Friday is grocery day. Jared wants to go to one of the smaller grocery stores in his neighborhood, but Jensen would rather shop at the Whole Foods in Lakeview. Either way, the list is at Jensen’s loft. After work Saturday, Jared should start packing, and probably do some laundry at Jensen’s, since he has an in-unit, brand new washer/dryer.

Five minutes away from the gallery, Jared’s anxiety spikes. “What if everyone hates my work, Jen? What if no one buys anything? What if they all yell boo-urns at me?”

“Katie and Kim are gonna be there, JP, that’s two people guaranteed not to boo are you. Besides, ooing at you? That’s a paddlin’.” Jensen reaches over and pats Jared’s knee. “Look, you’re gonna sell out. I can feel it. My tattoos are tingling. Wanna feel?”

“No! Why are they tingling? Jensen!”

“It’s my art senses, JP, I can’t help it! Hey, you wanna know what else is tingling?”

“Euw, Jensen…”

“Okay, okay. Hey, I know what’ll cheer you up.”

“Do you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“…Lisa it’s your birthday. God bless you this day.”

“Oh, Jen…”

“You gave me the gift of a little sister and I’m proud of you today.”

“…”

“I wish you love and good will, I wish you peace and joy. I wish you better than your heart desires, and your first kiss from a boy.”

At the last red light before the gallery, Jensen leans over to press a kiss to Jared’s cheek.

The light turns green. They are the second car to cross the intersection.

Jared can’t stop smiling.

He opens his mouth to say thank you.

That’s when the garbage truck hits.

 

**Accident Number**

| 

**Date**

| 

**City of Chicago Motor Vehicle Accident Report**

| 

**Date Rec. By DMVS**  
  
---|---|---|---  
  
891380

| 

4/22/2015

| 

**Road of Occurrence** : Ashland

| 

**At Intersection With** :  
  
**Total Number of:**

| 

[x]North [ ]South [ ]East [ ]West

| 

Foster  
  
Vehicles (2)

| 

**Hit and Run**

| 

**Officer Arrived**  
  
Injuries (3)

| 

No

| 

5:30

| 

Axl. Ind?  
  
Fatalities* (3)

*Coroner’s Report Attached: [x] Y [ ] N

| 

[x] Y [ ] N  
  
**Driver #1**  
  
**Last Name**

| 

**First**

| 

**Address**

| 

**DOB**  
  
Ackles

| 

Jensen R.

| 

4745 N Ravenswood Ave, Chicago, 60640

| 

3/1/1991  
  
**DL No.**

| 

**Class**

| 

**State**

| 

[x] Male [ ] Female  
  
A000003991

| 

C

| 

IL

| 

**Removed By:**  
  
**Insurance**

| 

**Policy No.**

| 

HONDA CRV

| 

DANIELS  
  
Allstate

| 

12345678

| 

Vehicle Color: Silver  
  
Year: 2015

| 

**VIN**

| 

12243845334  
  
**Driver Condition**

| 

Direction of Travel: North

| 

Vision Obscured: No  
  
DOS

| 

Vehicle Condition: Inoperable

| 

Alc. Test: NEG  
  
**Driver #1 PASSENGER**  
  
**Last Name**

| 

**First**

| 

**Address**

| 

**DOB**  
  
Padalecki

| 

Jared T.

| 

1222 W Roosevelt Road, Chicago, 60607

| 

7/19/1982  
  
**Passenger Condition**  
  
DOS

| 

[x] Male [ ] Female  
  
**On Scene Injuries:**

| 

**Device Inoperative?**

| 

**Removed By:**  
  
[x] Y [ ] N

| 

[x] Y [ ] N

| 

DANIELS  
  
**EMS Notified Time**

| 

**Arrival Time**

| 

**Hospital Arrival Time**

| 

**Photos Taken:**  
  
5:20

| 

5:35

| 

5:50

| 

[x] Y [ ] N  
  
**Report By:**

| 

**Checked By:**  
  
D/S JACKSON, O #573

| 

CPL JL CLARANCE #215  
  
**Additional Notes**  
  
Bodies Taken to Illinois Masonic  
  
 

 

On a city street, it’s important to hold hands, especially little ones.

This doesn’t look like any street Jared has ever seen before. But it’s a pretty one, the kind that warrants a leisurely, peaceful stroll. He looks over at Jensen. They’re walking. The air is fresh and the sun is out, highlighting his freckles.

Aren’t they going somewhere…?

“Mommy?”

“Yes, baby.” This is Jared’s voice. He knows that.

Between him and Jensen, holding their hands, is a little girl. She’s about three years old and perfect. Her eyes are green and there is a spray of freckles over the bridge of her small nose. In a white and pastel pink dress, she holds up a camera and looks to Jared.

“What is this?”

Jensen places a hand on her head, his fingers lying gently over tawny hair that matches his own. He looks at her in bittersweet wonder. She is every bit of him.

“That’s…” Jensen’s voice is thick. “…that’s a camera, sweetheart. Mommy gave it to you. Remember why?”

A smaller set of dimples flash and she points the camera up at both of them, smiling.

“Because it’s my birthday,” she announces with a laugh.

That’s where they’re headed—to celebrate.

From his spot on her left, Jensen hums a light, catchy tune. He swings her up and places her on his shoulders without missing a beat.

“Lisa, it’s your birthday,” Jensen sings, one cautious and protective hand on her leg and the other curled around Jared’s waist. “God blessed you this day.”

Naturally, Jared jumps in. “You gave me the gift of a little sister and I’m proud of you today.”

Both of them continue to sing, much to her delight.

“Lisa it’s your birthday. Happy birthday Lisa. Lisa, it’s your birthday.”

Jensen sings this part, his voice light and happy. “I wish you love and good will. I wish you peace and joy.”

Seamless, Jared finishes. “I wish you better than your heart desires, and your first kiss from a boy.” Jensen dips her down. She squeals and laughs and presses her hands over Jared’s hair. Jared smacks a big kiss onto her chubby, rosy cheek. Jensen is next. Jared pulls him in.

The light was green. Jared could see the gallery. He was about to unbuckle his seatbelt.

But that doesn’t matter now.

What matters is this kiss.

 

It’s not his very first kiss from a boy.

But it is his last.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Call it Stormy Monday" by T-Bone Walker and "Lisa It's Your Birthday" from The Simpsons.
> 
> y'alll: this was supposed to be a kink challenge fill but it definitely doesn't fit that. thanks to a couple of comments here, let me clarify something. i'm going through a lot right now. i'm working things out and this was me doing that. i may come back and change things around later, who knows.


End file.
